


Tinúviel

by floorcoaster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24710329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floorcoaster/pseuds/floorcoaster
Summary: A glimpse into a quiet night at home.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 17
Kudos: 131





	Tinúviel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [In_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Dreams/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!
> 
> Beta thanks to inadaze22 & dreamsofdramione!

It is a quiet evening.

A fire pops and sizzles in the hearth, casting a warm glow. Draco is sitting in his favorite armchair, reading a report on endangered dragons. His chair is soft, dark brown leather, and he faithfully polishes and oils it by his hand every other month. The chair back is tall, providing support for the long hours he spends there. Large brass studs secure the leather to the frame at the arms and the back. Beside him on a small table is a glass of wine and a lamp.

Outside the harsh winds of winter swirl snow against the windows. 

But inside, all is calm. 

Draco looks up when he hears a sniffle. 

Hermione is also seated in her favorite chair, but it couldn’t be more different than Draco’s. It is an old, oversized, fabric-covered wingback with abnormally tall armrests that she refuses to let him reupholster. The design is a hideous floral pattern; the cushion is saggy and lumpy. In one of the corners, the fabric is nearly worn through, due to her habit of curling up and pressing herself as deeply as she can into that cozy space. 

This is how she now sits, sideways in that corner with her knees pulled up and tucked into the other corner. Her toes disappear in the cracks. A blanket loosely covers her, largely forgotten as she became immersed in her story. On the cushion beside her, Crookshanks lays curled. 

Draco smiles to himself as he watches, engrossed in the story, one hand hovering just above the cat, as though she were about to pet him but got distracted. Then he hears another sniffle, and she lifts her free hand to dab at her eyes. His attention now fully on his wife, Draco removes his readers and sets them on the side table. 

She continues to read, the sniffles growing in frequency. Draco watches as she stops bothering to wipe her eyes and a single tear runs down her face, its path glistening in the flickering light. She finally stops, marks her place, and shuts the book, letting it rest in her lap. 

Draco recognizes the cover and the gold foil medallion on the spine. It is one she’s read many times, one that never fails to elicit a strong response. He has never asked about this before, but tonight, curiosity will not be denied. 

“Why do you read that so often if it makes you upset?” 

Hermione jumps, startled out of her thoughts. Her watery eyes meet his and she smiles. “They’re bittersweet tears. It’s a beautiful love story.”

Draco frowns slightly. “Oh? I’d never have guessed that from the admittedly little I know of those books.”

She looks down and puts her hand reverently on the blue, linen cover. “I suppose the whole book is something of a love story, though not in a traditional sense. It is a tale of makers and their creations and the love they have for each other, though it becomes tainted by malice and cruelty. In the midst of the larger story, though, there are small ones. There is one tale that always makes me cry, more so over the years we’ve been together.”

He closes his book and places it aside with his glasses, then leans forward to rest his elbow on his knees. “Why is that?”

Hermione shrugs. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s tragic in part, and though there is something like a happy ending, it is achieved at a great price. A mortal falls in love with an elf, the daughter of a king, and he does not approve. He gives the man an impossible task and promises to grant his daughter’s hand if he succeeds. She joins him and they must go into the heart of evil itself. They are successful, but he is mortally wounded soon after they wed. She dies of grief. But then the gods grant her a wish because she is an immortal, and they return her and her love to life and grant them the same fate. It’s truly an epic love tale.”

Draco says nothing, choosing instead to watch the woman he loves go through her feelings about the story. After a few minutes, she sighs. He thinks she is about to resume reading, so he stands and crosses to her, drawing her attention. Gently, he moves Crookshanks to the floor, much to the beast’s displeasure, then takes hold of the book and gives a light pull. Hermione releases it, and he sets it on the table beside her chair. 

Kneeling before her chair, he takes her hand. “There are other kinds of epic loves.” 

Without missing a beat she begins listing. “Mark Antony and Cleopatra, Abelard and Heloise, Lancelot and Guinevere, Oepheus and—” 

“Not all epic love is tragic, you know.”

Hermione smiles patiently. “Darcy and Elizabeth. Rochester and Jane. Westley and Buttercup.”

“Or ours.” He pulls her hand to his lips and begins to kiss her fingers.

She quirks an eyebrow in amusement. “Is that so? It doesn’t feel very epic.”

“That’s because we’re still in it.” He thinks of their children, tucked into bed, of the daily rhythms of their life that seemed unchanging. “Consider this. We’ve had adventure, magic, belligerent friends, disapproving parents.” They share a smile, but then a shadow passes over his features. “The anti-hero must conquer his demons to be worthy of her love, something so pure and strong that it takes his breath away and rips his heart to shreds for its sheer beauty before piecing it back together again.” He takes a deep breath. “And she goes daily with him into the deepest, darkest places of his heart and gives him the power to wrest his soul from self-destruction.”

When he meets her eyes again, there are fresh tears. She lifts her hands to his cheeks and pulls him toward her, kissing him with fire in the touch of her lips. He buries his hands in her hair, for once grateful that her favorite chair is so roomy as he climbs onto the cushion, desperate for every breathy moan, every delicate yet demanding touch. 

They spend the next hour in that chair, somehow, and he thinks, as they drive each other over the edge, that this is the last piece of furniture in their small home they haven’t christened. And as she comes undone under his ministrations, he vows to her and to the earth and anything that will accept him that he will spend his life loving her.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 


End file.
